


Most People are Other People

by DaraOakwise



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-28
Updated: 2020-01-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:00:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22445248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaraOakwise/pseuds/DaraOakwise
Summary: The woman who, an hour before, had been known as Ruth Clayton contemplates the puzzles from the day.
Comments: 10
Kudos: 62





	Most People are Other People

The TARDIS door swung shut and the woman who, until an hour before, had been known as Ruth Clayton sighed and put her ship back in flight, glad to be rid of her troublesome other _possible_ self.

“Missed you, old girl,” she whispered, and the TARDIS burbled in agreement. The Doctor leaned heavily on the console, and tried to convince herself that the other woman whom she’d just booted off the ship hadn’t been the Doctor.

The most compelling piece of evidence against was the fact that neither of them recognized each other. Which, unfortunately, was also fairly compelling piece of evidence that they _were_ the same Time Lord. An imposter—say, someone from the Division—would have pretended to be a future incarnation. The other woman’s look of devastated bafflement, her whispered, guileless “ _you can’t be me_ ,” was enough to undermine the distant hope that they might not be one in the same. 

Further evidence in favor of identical identity included the physical evidence, of course. The scan by that _ridiculous_ sonic, and, more compellingly, by the Judoon. Their voices echoing back the same words across the console. The other TARDIS on the screens, when she flew them home. The other woman’s absolutely hideous sense of style. The way she could not shut up, or follow directions, and just waded into the middle of it all by saying the _worst_ possible thing … oh, so much the Doctor.

Just as compelling was her own visceral and immediate hatred of the other woman’s stupid blonde hair and dumb round face and incessant nattering. Her self loathing was always at its peak when it was staring back at her through another set of eyes.

And the final evidence … The Doctor glared and the pulse rifle propped against the console, punched in some coordinates, opened the door straight above a supernova, and chucked the hateful thing straight into the inferno. 

_The Doctor never uses weapons_

_I know._

She was not, however, above letting people vaporize themselves with guns that she had fiddled with. _I told her not to do it. I begged her not to fire. But you knew she would._ Yes, we did, Doctor, we always do. A very old, very clever trick, mostly on ourselves, in the hope that we can hold onto the moral high ground by the very tips of our fingers.

And so, reluctantly, but with absolute certainty, the Doctor concluded that that ridiculous, tiny, blonde, half-trousered idiot was, in fact, herself.

“I need a wash, old girl,” the Doctor announced to the TARDIS. And the TARDIS agreed, but the Doctor’s voice still echoed mournfully in the empty space. She missed Lee, and oh, the guilt weighed heavily on her hearts. Another failed duty of care. And worse, she knew perfectly well that she’d used him.

He’d always adored her. Loved her. Much more than she loved him. In fact, if she was confessing truths, she hadn’t loved him at all. _Fond_ of him, yes. Love? Oh, Doctor, no. But perfectly happy to use him. To accept his devotion, and his life. _Ruth_ had loved him, maybe. She hoped. She hoped that had been enough for him.

And now she was alone. She knew the other Doctor wasn’t. Filtering Ruth’s memories, she could see the young humans, whose names she couldn’t remember. Those bright and shining companions, their eyes full of wonder and adoration for a woman they didn’t really know at all. Their very lives on the line, doing as they were told, in exchange for the wonders of the universe and the _honor_ (the Doctor thought bitterly,) of knowing the Doctor. Yes, they too were unpleasant proof that she’d just met herself.

Selfish Doctor, always. And yet, she hoped they were a comfort to her other self, a little bit. That the other Doctor had walked onto a TARDIS filled with friends, and been lifted. She hated to feel sorry for herself, but oh, she did. 

The Doctor turned into her bedroom, long abandoned, and stripped off her clothing. Her favorite coat and shirt were in terrible need of laundering after a few decades in a drawer. And soak for herself, she decided, while she turned her thoughts to the mystery of why neither of them had recognized each other. 

There were two explanations. Well, three, but she decided to examine the first two.

Option one: Blondie was an earlier incarnation and, for some reason, had been wiped from her memory. The Doctor very much hoped it was true because she wasn’t keen to live through, and remember, the things that had carved utter devastation straight through the other Doctor’s eyes. Acid poured over that pale moon face would have been less obvious, and less horrific. The Doctor desperately wished that she had already lived it, and saved Gallifrey, and put it out of her mind. Literally. 

Option two: Blondie was her future and, for some reason, _she_ had been the one forgotten. Possible. Not quite her usual life this go-around. Entangled with Time Lords and Gallifrey far more than she liked. They were still after her; no telling the consequences if they ever caught her. They certainly weren’t above wiping minds and trashing regenerations.

The Doctor sighed in frustration, and got up. The bath was annoying her. Dry off, get dressed, get a shift on.

There was no way to work out which one of those options were true. She should have made her other self stay a bit, and asked some questions, but at the time she had never wanted a person _off_ the TARDIS more in her life.

So, option three: that something else was going on. That they were not, strictly speaking, either one’s past or future. Alternate universes, divergent timelines, entangled multiverse, false pasts, aborted futures … all possible. Or something else. Something she couldn’t guess at right now. Not enough information.

Today wasn’t the end of this unpleasantness. She could feel it. Something stalking her, hunting her. Time swirling around her. 

Back to the console room. Coordinates, and a message: “Well, Doctor,” she said to herself. “Let’s figure this out.”

  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
